


The Deferent

by hoomhum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Lambert (The Witcher), Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Ritual Sex, Ritual Sex that Turns Into Sex With Feelings, Threesome - M/M/M, Winter At Kaer Morhen, and a nice ending, lots of Lambert feelings, the tiniest smidge of angst, the wolves take care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: The tradition of fighting over of the Role of Deferent is the closest thing Witchers have to religion, and Lambert thinks the only thing more embarrassing than losing every time would be his brothers smelling the way he yearns for something more. The way the thought of them gets him hot under the collar and he wishes it was more than some stupid fucking ritual they do to keep Vesemir happy.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Comments: 34
Kudos: 178





	The Deferent

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% based off of That One Tumblr Post and no I will not elaborate. It's also my first Witcher fic, so uhhhhh *toots kazoo *. Much love to those of you who beta read this for me and listened to me wail about adjectives for cocks. There are so many cocks in this story.

Four wolves live in Kaer Mohren every winter now, and it's like the old keep is full of ghosts. Lambert isn't _glad_ everyone is dead— he's not that cruel— but to know that the mutagens and training methods that killed the rest of his entire class won't ever harm another boy, well. He won't lose any sleep over that. Or over the graves of a few of the particularly sadistic fuckers that had shouted and sneered and beaten him and his brothers bloody just so that their lives could become this.

He outlived every boy in his cohort so that he could travel and risk his life, be stiffed and cheated and turned away at every legitimate establishment and half the shit ones just because of what he was made to be. He lived, so that he can work until he dies and _maybe_ someone will miss him, but probably it will only be one of his brothers and he'll be lucky if he isn't the last one left.

He's not the only member of the pack that has a complicated relationship with the home that made them, but there are times that he feels particularly isolated. Geralt and Eskel are older than him by decades, and Vesemir by centuries (probably), and even though he's good, he's really fucking good, it never seems to be enough.

Geralt went through the Trial of the Grasses twice. Even if he didn't have the hair to prove it, his reflexes are faster, his stamina and strength better, and it's damn irritating to go up against him with the same training, the same fucking work and know that he'll never have the edge to put his brother on his back the way he's been put during any number of sparring matches over the years.

And Eskel? Even before the sacking they had said he was the most magical a person could be outside of a mage. His fury at what had happened to the keep had unlocked an even stronger conduit in him; not even Geralt could match his signs. Vesemir had forbade him from practicing with them any more, after he blew a particularly large chunk out of one of the towers.

Vesemir is Vesemir, and has handed all of them their asses since they were young. He doesn't walk the Path much these days, doesn't range far from Kaer Mohren at least, and leaves the worst of the beasts that roost in the mountains for his pups when they come back to shelter in the late autumn, but his mind is sharper than the three of them put together. He tries single handedly to carry all the knowledge of their tradition, and to impress it upon their shoulders when he can.

Then there's him, Lambert. The littlest wolf.

On the Path he isn't little, or young, or inexperienced, or any of these things. He isn't standing in the shadows of hundreds of years of tradition or even just between his older brothers. He's just Lambert, a Witcher, and he's here to kill whatever needs killing, get paid for it and get out again.

It takes time to adjust each winter, to being with the pack again. None of them are particularly condescending— at least, no more than Lambert can give back in kind. His brothers treat him like an equal, and Vesemir treats them all like they're boys, doling out chores and training regimens like they haven't yet passed their trials. They each pull their own weight when it comes to surviving the winter, and when the nights draw in they share stories of the Path, of what they fought and where.

He doesn't have to struggle to earn his place. He has his medallion. He has his pack's respect. And yet, twice a winter under Vesemir's watchful eye, they compete for the Role of the Deferent, as Witchers did in Kaer Mohren before they were so much as conceived, and which they will apparently always do.

The first Deferent is chosen the morning after they've all arrived and the rules are simple. A sparring match between the three of them, swords only, no signs. Each of them starts with three points, and loses one to each missed opportunity, bungled attack, or shoddy bit of footwork.

Vesemir is the ruling judge and, Lambert admits, he is unfailingly fair. Even Geralt loses points each time, though he's never the first to zero. That's a long, hard battle between Lambert and Eskel, who without his signs doesn't have nearly as much an advantage.

Nine times out of ten, though, Vesemir calls out, "That's zero, Lambert."

This time is the same, and the eldest Wolf crosses the courtyard to where they all stand, sweating, with heaving chests. 

"Do you submit to the abilities of your betters?" Vesemir asks, holding out his hand for Lambert's sword. "Will you accept their support, and your role as the Deferent?"

Lambert drops the sword into his hand, jaw clenched and tension running through him.

"Yeah, fine," he says. Vesemir raises his brows at him, unimpressed, and he commits to the formal language. "I accept."

"Go on, then, pups. Get to it. I'll see that dinner is ready after."

Lambert gets a head start to the hot springs, as he doesn't have to stow his gear. Eskel and Geralt move leisurely behind him, giving him additional time to prepare, and Lambert's partly grateful and partly annoyed by it.

This whole thing is bullshit and they all know it. Witchers have been competing for the Deferent since the beginning of time, an elaborate ritual where the least warrior is inseminated by the best. It doesn't make any sense. What the hell is come gonna do for him, least of all Witcher come— it can't get a woman with child, why would they think it has the power to transfer strength?

He dunks himself in one of the cooler pools of the springs, unable to stand the thought of getting in the steaming water while he's still sweating, then drops into a warmer one where he gives himself a quick scrub all over. It would be nice to luxuriate, but he can hear Eskel and Geralt's footsteps coming down the stairs, so he hauls himself out in a rush of water, grabs a vial of oil, and heads, still dripping, into the smaller antechamber they use just for this purpose.

The stone shelves are stocked with towels and he throws one over his shoulders before dropping another, folded, onto the ground to kneel upon. Then there's really no time to mess around because his brothers are splashing into the pools outside.

Oil on finger, finger in ass. 

He clamps down on a hiss at the sensation. It's been almost a year. There's no room for sex like this on the road, not with strangers or whores. The whores don't expect it— he has to pay enough to get them to lay back and close their eyes, even the ones that don't reek of fear. It's not like he's found someone else he trusts enough to do this with.

Not that this is really sex, anyway. They're just making the motions, like puppets. He tries to be like a puppet too, because the only thing more embarrassing than losing every time would be his brothers smelling the way he yearns for something more. The way the thought of them gets him hot under the collar and he wishes it was more than some stupid fucking ritual they do to keep Vesemir happy.

Instead, it's the closest thing Witchers have to religious tradition and that, Lambert thinks, as he shoves two more fingers inside himself, is pretty fucked up. He keens at the pain of the stretch, too much, too fast.

"It's not supposed to hurt," Eskel points out, from way closer than Lambert expected, which makes him jerk in surprise. Somebody pours more oil on his hand and takes his wrist, guiding his fingers gently. "Go easy, little wolf. You want us to take over?"

Fingering himself is crap, he can never get a good angle, which is why he nods and lets Geralt nudge him onto all fours, petting his side as Eskel presses his own fingers in. Lambert focuses on keeping his mouth shut and stretching out his cramped wrist as he's gently and methodically prepared. Each thrust of Eskel's fingers never quite hits his prostate, but neither does the way he moves them cause any more of the sharp, burning, too much, too fast, sensation.

"Ready?" Eskel asks, clean hand soothing over his hip. Lambert nods wordlessly. "My power is yours, Deferent."

He waits, both hands gripping at Lambert's hips now, until Lambert manages the ritual reply. "I accept." 

Then he sinks his cock in steadily.

Eskel isn't just called the Dragon of Kaer Mohren for the strength of his Igni. His cock is a long, thick piece and he wields it as powerfully as he does either of his swords. Lambert doesn't particularly like the tradition of being reminded that he's not as good a fighter as the other wolves, but the consolation prize isn't bad.

It's pretty damn good, if he's honest. Not that he'd admit it aloud.

He sinks onto his elbows so that he can bury his head in his arms as Eskel fucks him solidly and efficiently, brushing his prostate every few strokes but not aiming for it reliably. Lambert's grateful for that, because has to take Geralt next and he doesn't like to come early in the process, but he doesn't know if Eskel is doing it on purpose or if he just has bad aim.

Lambert tries not to think on it too much. His own cock strains up against his stomach, flushed and dripping, begging to be touched, but that isn't what this is about. This is about some dumb fucking ritual of the best warriors inseminating the worst to make them stronger, which doesn't even make any fucking sense.

Eskel comes with a low grunt, grinding into Lambert's ass like it's the best thing he's ever felt and when he pulls away, Lambert can't stop the whine that escapes him. He's so godsdamned empty and wet and desperate now. Eskel lowers himself to the stone floor beside him and Geralt shuffles over to take his place. 

His knees nudge Lambert's apart even further and his fingers dip into Lambert's leaking ass, pressing the spilled come back inside as he says the words. "My strength is your strength." 

"A-accept," Lambert gasps against his forearms, before biting down against his own wrist to stop the sounds that are trying to tumble from his lips.

He comes when Geralt bottoms out in one swift, messy thrust that unerringly slides along the sensitive nerve inside of him. The pleasure of it makes his limbs go loose, and he slides down even further, chest to the stone, and it's just Geralt's grip on his hips keeping him upright enough to fuck. 

It's a haze from there, Geralt pounding into his arse, and Eskel murmuring to him gently. He turns his face to the side so he can breathe again, whining at the rub of Geralt's cock against his sore rim, and Eskel wipes his brow with a rag and hushes him, promising it's nearly done. 

Geralt's orgasm is a thunderous thing, accompanied by a growl and the tightening of his fingers against Lambert's hips, bruising him. The bruises will fade quickly, as will any soreness from their rough coupling. In his post orgasmic haze, Lambert wishes he could keep them like a human might, even for just a day or two. 

He's just worn out enough to not even get angry at the thought of wanting it.

Geralt holds him steady after he's pulled out, keeping him upright long enough for Eskel to lay out more towels. Then together they ease Lambert onto them, rolling him onto his back with gentle hands and pillowing his head on a folded towel. They say nothing, which is good, because Lambert doesn't want to break the relaxed feeling that's built up in him with sniping. 

He closes his eyes and lets them move him, lets them wash him clean again, traitorous cheeks blushing slightly when fingers nudge into his ass again to clean out the worst of the spend and oil and his dick twitches at the sensation. Neither of his packmates say a word, rubbing him clean again, then dressing him in a simple linen robe. They take robes of their own, gather up the used towels, and then head off.

That's all there is to it. They each head to their own rooms to dress, and then when they come down for dinner— to a more extravagant spread than they will eat the rest of the season— the banter, and swearing and camaraderie has returned, and no one speaks of the softness that occurred in the rooms below.

~

After that, the routine of winter threatens to slay him itself. Lambert has never been very good with routine, or with boredom, and once they are snowed in Kaer Mohren offers plenty of both. It particularly irks him to feel like a child again. Morning chores are dictated by Vesemir. Afternoon training is dictated by Vesemir. The evenings they have to themselves, and any time they can sneak in between by finishing tasks early, but after months on the Path of following his own instinct, it's grating to be told what to do and when, and how.

If it weren't for Eskel and Geralt he probably wouldn't come back. 

Besides the guilt he would feel, leaving them without a way to know he's survived another year, they make the repetitive days a little more bearable. The three of them gamble for chore chits after supper, and trade the things that are inconsequential. Some projects really do require one of them in particular— Eskel's Aard, or Geralt's extra strength, for example— but feeding the chickens, or distributing firewood, these can be traded away despite Vesemir's disapproving looks.

Then there's the stories. Few others really appreciate the skill and work that go into a good hunt, or can properly commiserate over a bad one. Or a good hunt and a bad payout. Lambert's had a good year: two archgriffins and three royal wyverns, atop of the normal, easy monsters. He likes prey that he can hunt like animals, whereas Eskel always comes back with stories of wraiths and dead that need avenging. Lambert hates those hunts, where you have to talk to everyone in the damn village to figure out who killed the maiden and why. 

Geralt likes anything and everything, the easy fucker. Probably the extra mutagens. But he shares stories too, and shares his stash of White Gull freely, which is nice because Lambert had to use all of his on the road. 

So the winter goes on, and it's… fine. It's not fantastic, and Lambert has to escape every other week or so for some ice fishing (with bombs!) or some hunting (sadly, not with bombs after one minor avalanche incident several years ago) for a few days. The others let him be, either because they understand or because he brings back fresh meat, and that's good enough for him.

Then mid-winter is nearing, and Vesemir announces over dinner that they will fight for the Role of Deferent again in the morning.

Lambert is ready. He's always ready, but he feels for some reason even more determined to prove himself. Maybe it's the blizzard that's been dumping snow over the keep for the past five days, making him stir crazy and more eager to fight than usual, but whatever it is he wants to show his pack that he can win this.

Or, at least, that he can beat Eskel. 

When the sun rises the next morning, unfettered by clouds, they clear the courtyard with generous blasts of Igni, choosing to fight outside instead of in one of the lesser used halls. It's better this way, Lambert thinks, as it gives Vesemir space to circle them without getting too close, and without any of them having to worry about getting backed into a corner or notching their blades on the walls. 

Then he doesn't have time to think, as Vesemir gives the signal and it's time to _move._ He fights on instinct, striking, blocking, and twirling away again to regain his balance and focus against his opponents. He barely hears as Vesemir calls out a point against Geralt early on, and then one for himself for a poorly executed parry. 

It goes on, but not for long because real sword fights never do and neither do their bouts. Lambert sinks so deeply into the rhythm of it that he misses the next few points called.

What he doesn't miss is Vesemir saying, "Geralt, that's zero."

He stumbles to a halt midswing, shocked. Geralt's expression is neutral, though Eskel at least echoes some of Lambert's surprise. This has never happened before. 

"Geralt," Vesemir says as he approaches, his voice and expression calm, with his hand outstretched for the man's sword. "Do you submit to the abilities of your betters? Will you accept their support and your role as the Deferent?"

"I do," Geralt says. A few shorter strands of hair have escaped the tie he uses to hold it back, and he pushes them out of his face, then tugs the tie undone. "I accept."

"Go, then," Vesemir orders. As Geralt takes off for the springs, the eldest Witcher turns back to them. Lambert is staring after Geralt, a sense of unease in his chest. Eskel seems to be watching him as well. Vesemir scoffs. "Well? You know how this goes. Get to it."

As one they nod, going to store their swords. 

"Was that…?" Eskel begins uncertainly as they reach the shed. He clearly doesn't know how to say what he's thinking.

"Fucking weird," Lambert says for him, because it was. He's good and Eskel is good, but neither of them, even together, are good enough to beat out Geralt. They haven't been for the past several decades and he doesn't know why this year would be any different.

"Right," Eskel nods. 

Weird or not, though, this is the tradition, as it has been and as it will be apparently forever, so they stow their gear and head down to the springs. Geralt has already retreated to the antechamber when they splash into the water.

They scrub in silence for a moment, and then Lambert says, "I want to go first." 

"What?"

"You go first when it's me, he goes first when it's you, I want to go first," Lambert elaborates, scrubbing under his arms with perhaps a little more force than necessary. He knows Geralt and Eskel have some sort of _thing_ , some kind of unspoken bond from being in the same cohort, or whatever, but he wants this and it's only fair, right? 

Not that Witchers really get a whole lot of fair. He opens his mouth to make a probably unwise crack about how if he goes after Eskel he won't be able to feel a damn thing— his prick's nothing to be ashamed of, he's never had any complaints, but it's not the godsdamned dragon— when Eskel shrugs.

"Sure."

Lambert squints at him. It doesn't even make sense. The first person who goes traditionally lends the Deferent their power and the second their strength, and Eskel has more power than him. He opens his mouth to ask if he's sure but then closes it again, because he doesn't want to argue _against_ himself, he's not a fucking idiot. 

Geralt is kneeling in the center of the room when they enter the antechamber. He almost looks like he's meditating, but his fingers are slick with oil and it shines down the crack of his ass as well.

"You ready?" Eskel asks. 

Geralt nods, meeting their eyes briefly before reaching behind himself to press in two fingers. Lambert scoffs and grabs the oil himself.

"You'll need more than two if you don't want it to hurt." He douses his fingers and hunkers down behind Geralt. He slides the pad of his finger around the clenching hole, then presses it against the two that Geralt already has pressed into himself. "Relax, Wolf. Haven't you ever done this before?"

He means it as a tease, not an actual question, and is shocked when Geralt shakes his head. 

"Not a cock," the man under his hands says. "Fingers and… tongue once. Before the trials."

Eskel startles. "I didn't think you remembered that."

Geralt's fingers slip out as he twists to look at Eskel. Lambert grumbles, adding his own fingers in, because it's damn uncomfortable to sit around naked and not be doing what they're supposed to be doing. Still, he takes note of the way Eskel's eyes are wide and Geralt's heart rate has sped up.

"I didn't, at first," Geralt admits. "The fever dreams were… intense. I thought that was one of them. But it wasn't, was it?"

Eskel shakes his head. "You found that fucking romance rag in the library. Gave us ideas."

Lambert can picture it: two boys, just barely of age, reading things they absolutely ought not to have. No one else to understand what they were going through day after day, no one else feeling the things that they felt. Of course they turned to each other.

"So, Eskel's tongue," he says, spreading his fingers out to really stretch Geralt properly, despite the way the man's body has clamped down. "Good as his cock?"

It's the wrong thing to say and he knows it, but he also knows that Geralt threw the fucking fight somehow. It should be him here, spread out beneath his brothers. Him getting stretched open and doted upon. Geralt's breath punches out, maybe at his words or maybe at the way he's being handled.

Either way he manages to say, "Couldn't tell you."

Eskel is looking at Geralt like he's something to be devoured. Like he wants to put his tongue on him, and that makes Lambert feel like breaking something. But Witcher's lives are rarely fair. He pulls his hand free and wipes it on his thigh. 

"On your back. I'm going first." 

To his credit, Geralt turns, laying back and spreading his legs wide like a well trained harlot. He even breaks the intense gaze he's been holding with Eskel in order to look Lambert in the face. 

"Like this, are you sure?" Geralt asks. He doesn't seem uncertain or nervous, just curious.

"Wouldn't have fucking said it if I wasn't." He shuffles forward, grappling for one of Geralt's legs and pulling it over his shoulder and then reaching for the oil to slick himself up. 

Then he pauses and scrambles for the words. "Er— My power is yours, Deferent."

"I accept." 

Geralt is ridiculously tight, tighter around Lambert's cock than anything he's ever felt before. It's a warm, slick slide and it takes all his restraint not to just go all in at once. Geralt said he hadn't done this before and rumors be damned, Lambert can be a fucking gentleman when he wants to. So he takes his time getting in, adjusting his grip on Geralt and tugging him close as he slides into his core. 

Geralt meanwhile gasps and pants, tossing his head back hard against the stone. When he does it a second time, Eskel fetches a rolled up towel to cushion his skull from the blows. In this position, Lambert can see Geralt's cock, soft from the prep, beginning to fill again.

"I'm fine, Lamb— I'm good, go." Geralt grips his wrist and squeezes until his bones creak. "Go."

He might not like doing what he's told, but Lambert can't deny that sounds like a pretty good idea.

He snaps his hip back then thrusts in again, delighting in the response it draws from his brother. It's been a while since he's had a male partner to fuck, but he remembers the mechanics of it and he's never failed to please. Whether it was butchers or blacksmiths that bent over for him, or foppish nobles' sons that wanted a wild night, he's played this role before and he knows how to give the man beneath him what he needs to enjoy himself.

It just usually involves more than getting his dick wet.

Geralt's body is a map of scars; Lambert could probably suss out the source of each one, but he wants to trace them with his fingers or his tongue, lick his way up to the nipples that are standing out in high relief on Geralt's chest. He wants to wrap his hand in the man's silver hair and tug, first to see if it gets a response, and then to pull his head to the side and press his face into his neck, to bite his neck and his earlobe, and maybe, even, to kiss there.

Instead he sets his jaw and tightens his grip. This isn't that. This is the bullshit ritual, not… not sex for pleasure, where the point is to wring sounds of delight from the body entwined with your own, or see how many erogenous zones you can find. The Deferent doesn't even _have_ to come for the ritual to be complete, it's just that Lambert usually does, and if the cocks in him aren't enough he's not above giving himself a hand to help things along. He'd give Geralt a hand too, if it seemed like that's what he wanted, but his dick is straining now, flushed red and weeping even though it's beside the point.

It's not like Geralt would even be interested in that with Lambert anyway. He's got his eyes closed now, but not a minute ago he was making doe eyes at Eskel and talking about getting licked out by him, getting fingered by him, so it's not— it's not—

He turns his head and bites down against the side of Geralt's knee as he comes, muffling himself. The sound Geralt makes in response to the bite is exquisite, so he nips again, and is rewarded by the sight of the man coming in thick ropes all over his chest.

"Alright?" Eskel asks, into the panting silence that follows. 

Lambert gives a jerky nod, carefully lowering Geralt's leg from his shoulder. Geralt's arm is thrown over his face, but he doesn't seem to be distressed as Lambert pulls out, cock shining with oil and squelching. Lambert crawls out of the way and drops onto his ass, still breathing heavily.

"Wolf?" Eskel presses, petting Geralt's hip absently, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Lambert notices, though. It shouldn't be Geralt on the floor getting petted. It should be him. "Just me, and then you're done, alright? I'll— try to be quick."

"Give me a second," Geralt rumbles, wiping his face with his hand. "I didn't mean to—"

Lambert reaches out, presses his fingers against the bite mark he left. Like it's connected by a string, he sees Geralt's cock twitch in response. Geralt liked it. 

Lambert's jaw clenches. He probably would have liked it too. He leans over and presses his face to the juncture between Geralt's neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. The White Wolf smells of sex and sweat, but more than that. He smells of lust and maybe… affection? There's a hint of the aroma that fills the small hall where they lounge and share stories and booze. 

Contentment?

He can't help the growl that escapes him, because that should be _his_ , shouldn't it? 

Geralt waves a hand, though, rubbing his legs against Eskel's as Eskel shuffles forward. "You want me like this? Or?"

"This is good," Eskel says, because the ritual doesn't care what position they're in, as long as the lesser warrior gets fucked. Lambert doesn't look, but he feels the way Geralt's body tenses as Eskel begins to push in, knows he's being stretched a bit wider, taking more than he's ever had before.

"Lamb, will you—" Geralt tips his head away from where Lambert's nose is pressed, signaling what he wants, and Lambert's not gonna fucking say no to that, not when Geralt's asking so sweetly, keening at the sensation of being filled up and begging for the feeling of Lambert's teeth on him.

He bites down, because he was asked and because he wants to, and the moan it rips from Geralt makes his own cock stir. Geralt could've asked for Eskel to do it, but he hadn't, and that emboldens him some, as he nibbles at his earlobe as well and then just mouths wetly over the marks he's made.

Between them, Geralt writhes. He's hard again, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he's not sure he's allowed to touch. Lambert's not sure if he is either; this doesn't seem… proper. They're straying outside the rules of etiquette here.

But damn it, it should be Lambert there, taking the dragon and getting petted and cooed at: his name that Eskel is chanting brokenly. So he takes one of Geralt's fists and drags it in the direction of his own cock. Geralt gets a clue as soon as he makes contact with the heated skin, wrapping his fingers around Lambert and squeezing him in a firm grip.

Maybe Geralt hasn't taken it up the ass before, but he's obviously used his hand enough to know what feels good and has somehow retained enough of his senses to put that knowledge to use. Lambert loses focus quickly, panting against his brother's skin. It seems only fair in return that he grabs a handful of Geralt's hair and tugs him sideways so that he can press their mouths together.

He hears Eskel swear between Geralt's legs, maybe at the sight of them.

Geralt kisses like a desperate man and it's good, even if his hand loses the rhythm a bit. He bucks under Eskel's assault, groaning into Lambert's mouth, and Lambert can feel his second orgasm building in him. He knows from other partners that humans can't do this usually, don't have such good refractory periods to be able to come again in such a short span and it makes him think, a little hysterically, that maybe being a Witcher isn't all bad.

Eskel comes first though, his shouts echoing in the small cavern, and then it's just their panting breaths and the slick sound of Geralt's hand against Lambert's cock filling the air. 

Instead of shuffling away, Eskel pulls out and slowly lowers himself on top of Geralt, so that they're all lying in a messy, sweaty pile. Lambert can pinpoint the moment Eskel makes contact with Geralt's dick, pressing it between their bodies, because he pulls away from their kiss, eyes going wide and head thumping back against the towel Eskel had rolled up for him. Eskel shows no mercy, just laying on top of him like some kind of heavy blanket, head pillowed against his chest, head tipped in Lambert's direction.

"Good job, Geralt," he says breathlessly. "Survived your first time as Deferent."

Lambert scoffs loudly, lifting his head to glare at his brother. Are they still pretending? Geralt isn't the Deferent. He shouldn't have been the one getting fucked. Are they really going to lay here and delude themselves about it?

"Something to say, little wolf?" Eskel peeks one eye open, the one that was barely missed by the claws that sliced up the rest of his face. He asks it like a challenge, like he's perfectly satisfied to carry on with this lie.

Well, Lambert isn't.

"We didn't really beat him," he says. He wishes there was more authority in his tone and less petulance, but there's not much to be done once he's said it. "He fucking threw the fight, you know it and I know it. We all know it."

"Do you want to tell that to Vesemir?" Geralt asks, the fist around Lambert's cock tightening some. Not enough to be a threat, but more like a tease. Lambert tosses his head back and forth, denying it. He draws his lip between his teeth, biting down hard. 

"'s not… didn't do the ritual right, though," he says, against Geralt's skin. "Could be. Y'know. Consequences." He waves his fingers to indicate some sort of spiritual _something_ taking offense at the mockery they've made of the tradition.

"Hmm." Geralt draws a line down the length of his dick with just one finger, giving up all pretenses of jacking him, and Lambert tries not to whine at the loss of contact. "You think we should fuck you, little wolf? You're not ready for it."

"Didn't say it had to be me," Lambert snipes back, trying to retain some shred of dignity. "Eskel could've lost."

"Could've, but I didn't." Eskel moves then, sliding off of Geralt and landing on his knees on the stone beside Lambert. He puts his arm over Lambert's waist, fingers brushing over his bare, sweat dampened skin. "Do you _not_ want us to fuck you?"

"I—" Lambert cuts himself off before he can say something foolish. The game has changed and he's not sure what's happening now. They don't _talk_ about these types of things. And they definitely don't offer them to one another outside of the ritual. 

But he still has the taste of Geralt on his lips and it was… good. He wants more of that. And he was the one arguing they hadn't fulfilled the terms anyway, so maybe— 

"You should eat him out," Geralt says unexpectedly. "Let him compare your tongue and your cock like he wanted."

"You mind?" Eskel urges him onto his knees before he can think to respond and Lambert goes, used to being led here. He's so accustomed to being maneuvered into position, to the way Eskel's calloused but gentle hands soothe over his body that he goes unthinkingly. When he does get a moment to think about it, he can't help the moan the thought provokes. 

Head hung low, with Geralt still reclining beneath him, Lambert looks at the stone beneath his fingers. He can sense Eskel's movement behind him, feel his breath down his flank, then his hands massaging the flesh of his ass. Then Eskel applies his mouth, nuzzling between his cheeks. His tongue slides out to part them further, wetting a line from just behind his balls to past his hole and all the way up his lower back. He repeats the stroke, flattening his tongue to make it a broader lick, then applies his thumbs to draw Lambert's cheeks apart. 

Lambert is embarrassed by the fact that his elbows threaten to give out in the following still, silent seconds, during which Eskel seems to do nothing. Is he just looking? Lambert's been called an asshole plenty of times, and Eskel and Geralt have come in him enough times to be familiar with that part of his body, so what could he possibly be waiting for?

"Fuck!" Eskel prods his tongue inside without any warning or any more teasing and the sensation threatens to completely do Lambert in. He's never felt anything like this before. There's not a lad or lass on the whole fucking continent who's wanted to do this for him, not even the paid ones and, as his fingers clutch against the stone, he spares a second to wonder why, to think frantically if it's that unpleasant, before the thrusting and prodding and stroking of Eskel's tongue wrings coherent thought out of his head entirely. 

The sounds of it are just as indecent as the sensations, the squelching and satisfied hums as Eskel tilts his head this way and that, licking deeper and adding a finger to drag his rim further open. Lambert's arms give out, but he doesn't chin himself against the stone thanks to Geralt's reflexes. He finds himself draped in the other man's lap, one of Geralt's hands bracing his shoulder so that he isn't pushed across the floor in Eskel's insistence. The other curls at the nape of his neck, tickles at the short hairs there before sweeping up over the crown of his skull and petting him. 

And well… Geralt's cock is right there. It's right there and they're doing things that are outside the realm of normality today. It might be his only chance, if things proceed like they usually do, with what happens in the ritual chamber being ignored and unspoken of afterwards. So Lambert leans forward a bit more and opens his mouth, laving his own tongue across the base of Geralt's cock just to see what happens.

What happens is that Geralt hums in pleasure and the hand in Lambert's hair moves to the cock in front of his face. Geralt rubs it over his cheek and then slides his hand toward the tip, wiping precome with his thumb. He offers it to Lambert and Lambert licks the liquid away, then lets Geralt guide his jaw, clean thumb playing over his lips, until the head of his dick is resting right against them. 

Eskel does something absolutely devious, something that makes Lambert close his eyes and rut against the air, and the movement brings his head forward ever so slightly, just enough to slip the dick into his mouth. He seals his lips around the tip and sucks. Geralt has a nice cock, thick and long, and he thrusts a bit to settle the length of it on Lambert's tongue just so. His hand returns to Lambert's hair, fingers scrubbing against his scalp as he suckles and Lambert thinks he could come just from this, that he could die here and be happy.

Then Eskel pulls his mouth away, two fingers pressed deep into Lambert's ass with spit alone to smooth the way, and he whines around the cock in his mouth.

"Was gonna offer you first go, Wolf," Eskel says. "But you look good."

One of Geralt's hands moves around to hold Lambert's jaw again, his big palm cradling him firmly. He squeezes, making Lambert look up. 

"You tell us if you want this to stop." 

It's an order, not a question, so Lambert doesn't try to reply, just lets his eyes fall closed as he feels slicker fingers return to his ass. When had Eskel gotten the oil out? He doesn't have time to ponder it as Geralt shifts his grip, holding him with one hand in his hair and the other in his jaw, and begins to thrust into his mouth. He starts shallowly, just rubbing his cock over Lambert's flattened tongue, but then he picks up steam, working himself past Lambert's hard palate and then into his throat.

Lambert clutches at his packmate's thighs, at his hips, but doesn't think for a moment about trying to get away or signal Geralt should stop. It's good, heady stuff, even as he's forced to regulate his breathing. He doesn't want it to end, not even as Eskel brushes his prostate with his fingers, tipping him over the edge with a sound that is immediately muffled by the next thrust of Geralt's hips. 

Geralt pulls back then, letting his dripping cockhead brush over Lambert's lips as he catches his breath, and Lambert doesn't know if it's because he's about to come, or because Lambert already has and has somehow ruined things. He wonders if he's broken this odd spell that seems to have settled over his brothers, because Eskel has pulled away as well, but before he can manage so much as a questioning sound, Eskel's dick is pressing against his messy, stretched hole.

Oh gods, he'd somehow forgotten this was all just the appetizer. 

Eskel's cock is unyielding in the best of ways, pressing into Lambert further than either his tongue or his fingers could reach. Lambert is pinned between the two wolves that own his heart and it seems they are intent on taking him apart even further than the mess across his chest. He keens against Geralt's tip, lipping for more, only to be gently denied as Eskel sprawls across his back. The feeling is extravagant, his brother pressed into him and over him, covering him completely, and he feels lips at the nape of his neck, then teeth as well. 

It's only when Eskel begins to set his rhythm that Geralt lets Lambert taste again, and even then he doesn't fuck into him like he had before. Lambert finds himself begging for it, desperate to be stuck on both cocks at once, but Geralt shushes him, a gentle hand cupping his face and smoothing over his cheek.

"If you want me to last, I can't," he explains, drawing the leaking head of his cock over Lambert's pouting bottom lip. "Patience, little wolf. You said we should both fuck you."

Did he? Time has taken on a surreal quality, here in their cocoon of warmth. Lambert's knees will probably be sore for an hour or two once he's finally done kneeling on the hard stone, and he thinks briefly, erratically of reenacting this tableau somewhere with a mattress and cushions for comfort and to prop heads and asses and thighs, whatever they might want elevated for convenience or pleasure.

He's drawn out of his thoughts by a sudden hand on his cock, and the sound he makes is much too close to a yelp for comfort. He's come twice already since they entered this humid stone cavern, and he's not quite up for a third orgasm, despite the way his cock twitches valiantly at the touch. Eskel seems to sense that and just gives him a single stroke before sliding his hand back to pet over his flank.

"Love this," Eskel murmurs against his neck. "So good to us, Lamb." 

If there's more Lambert doesn't hear it, too lost in wonder and pleasure. Eventually Eskel comes in him with a familiar growl, and moves away. He trades ends with Geralt, but instead of sliding right in like Lambert expects, Geralt pauses thoughtfully.

"Help me roll him over."

He ends up on his back, head in Eskel's lap. Things are definitely going a little floaty now, but Eskel just pets his cheek gently and strokes through his hair.

"So good for us, little wolf," he says. Lambert reaches up to clutch his wrist. He wants to ask if he means it, if this is real or if it's just play. If it's just pretend. 

But then Geralt pushes into him with a squelch and it's like words have been fucked out of him. There isn't anything but the feeling of being pounded into, of lightning up his spine as Geralt lines up perfectly, and his cock grows optimistically against his thigh. Then Eskel reaches down with the arm Lambert isn't holding captive and caresses his chest, pressing a thumb against his nipple. When Lambert bucks at that, Eskel smirks and presses his thumbnail against the nub.

Lambert's shout echoes in the stone chamber as he writhes. The sensation is good. It's too good, too soon. Another orgasm this soon is going to hurt, he's over sensitive already.

"That felt good," Geralt growls between his legs. "Whatever you did— do it again."

Eskel does, and Lambert realizes he's clenching down as his body shudders with sensation. That must be what Geralt feels, what he likes, and he gets more of it as Eskel drags his nail over the opposite nipple, raking his hand over the breadth of Lambert's chest. 

Geralt is right, though, that it feels amazing. There's no denying it. Lambert feels like his heart is going to pound out of his chest, or possibly out of his dick the way that it's throbbing and no one is touching him there now, though he wants it, so he reaches down to grab himself. Almost immediately his hand is knocked away and he whines at the injustice, but Geralt's hand replaces it, rough calluses in all the right spots, grip just firm enough.

Geralt comes in him the next time Eskel's nails rake over Lambert's chest, and he barely pauses before slipping out and shuffling down Lambert's body. He props himself over Lambert's hips and swallows his dick in one go. 

"Fuck," Lambert swears, grabbing at Geralt's hair, the nearest convenient handhold. Geralt growls around his cock as he tugs and he can't help tugging again to recreate the sensation. His whole body is burning from the slow build of this orgasm, and it doesn't take long before he's coming down Geralt's throat.

Geralt swallows him down and laps him clean, then rests his head against Lambert's thigh, contentment radiating off of him. Eskel continues to move his fingers through Lambert's hair, scratching gently at his scalp as he catches his breath, and for a moment no one speaks.

Then Lambert says, slightly giddy, "We didn't say the words."

Geralt snorts in amusement and Eskel scoffs.

"If you want to be fucked again, we're doing it in bed. I'm tired of stone," he says. Geralt hums agreement against Lambert's thigh. 

Lambert feels his heart stutter with panic in his chest, and knows the others have heard it when Geralt lifts his head to meet his gaze.

"Yes," he rumbles. "That's an option, little wolf. If you want it."

Then Eskel's hand stills in his hair, and he can feel the uncertainty creeping back in.

"Unless you don't," he adds. "Outside of— this. But we could."

Lambert realizes that he still has one of Eskel's wrists clutched in his hand, and lets his thumb drift over the skin, rubbing gently at his pulse point. He smoothes Geralt's hair with his other hand, satisfied when the white wolf lowers his head again, eyes closing.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I want that. If you do."

"We do," Geralt presses a kiss, small but sure to Lambert's hip. "Like to take care of you. Of each other."

"Feels good," Eskel adds. His hair stroking resumes. "Something worth coming back for."

And that's… it, it seems like. After a few moments more, Eskel urges Lambert to sit up and wipes him down, before suggesting they rinse off again in the springs. They retreat to their rooms in their robes, and he wonders if he's imagined it all. He pulls on fresh clothes, and wonders about the odds of someone slipping something into Geralt's White Gull, something that's made all of this some kind of elaborate dream. 

He tromps down the stairs, uncertain and unhappy about it, only to meet Eskel and Geralt at the same time. Eskel draws him in for a kiss. Geralt gropes his ass and then leads the way into the great hall for dinner. Vesemir is waiting for them, and he tips his head as he scents the air.

"Finally, pups," he says, sitting down heavily in his chair. They all scramble for their seats, a little sheepish, but not ashamed. "This doesn't get in the way of your training and chores, and you clean up after yourselves. Got it?"

"Yes, Vesemir," they echo as one. Even Lambert. Because for the first time in a long time, there are some things he's looking forward to for the rest of winter.


End file.
